Margin Notes
by Rayc Petite
Summary: He didn’t have many mementos from their relationship, only notes in books and Distiller stubs. So fingering the pages allowed him to submerge himself in his emotions—something he usually hid from the world. LIT Slightly AU


**Author's Note: I'm writing a Lit story, because Fluf can't find a story that writes Jess "correctly," because she won't see Jess on the reruns for another twenty nine days, and because Dean has floppy hair.**

**So, I feed her delusion—I fear for her sanity.**

**It's going to be… eh… a four part story. It's all planned out… I just have to write it. **

**Set during LMHYBRO and later through TRPA, but Rory never dropped out of Yale… she's still there. **

**Jess POV.**

**Hides from the Rogan-lovers. **

**Margin Notes**

**Part 1**

**Among Other Things**

They were scrawled, disorganized, on the side. A constant, haunting reminder every time he picked up his copy of Kerouac. He never asked her to write them in there for him, she just did it. It annoyed him when she handed it back to him. Creating margin notes was what he liked to do. But soon, once he read her funny, little annotations, he grew to like them—kind of a reflection of their relationship. Her handwriting echoed her quirky personality, her down-to-earth elegance, which couldn't be duplicated—he'd looked.

He didn't remember they were there. It had been so long since he had had the urge to read On the Road, which he now remembered was because of the issue that was vexing him now. Imagine his surprise as he randomly flipped open the worn cover to find a tiny reminder of her. It had caused his heart to lurch forward in panic. He immediately shut the book, and returned it to the shelf in his apartment, which he shared with five other, slightly, destitute guys. They were living the life they had romanticized growing up, not realizing that it would be full of cramped spaces and smelly socks. They were making it on their own, even if they were just barely getting by. Their press was the last little haven they had, it made it all worthwhile for them—though they pretended it didn't mean anything, like it was a nuisance, a necessity that deferred them from their art.

He used to think about her a lot, when the pain from her rejection was still fresh, when she made him feel like he wasn't worth having. Later, he realized how pathetic he must have seemed to her. Him, going there, was an act of desperation—he must have been delusional. Usually the realist, cynical thinker, he had allowed a little bit of optimism seep in, and it had been his downfall. At least before, he could wonder about what could have been. He could pretend that he had just screwed up by leaving her, and that she was still secretly pinning for him. He knew it was crazy, but that didn't keep him from allowing the apparition to circulate his thought process every once in a while. But now, he knew he had ruined everything. There was no going back to his delusional state.

As the days, weeks, and months passed, he thought of her less and less. He was too preoccupied with building a business—albeit, small—and writing his book… the idea of which had been plaguing his mind for years. He guessed that he thought of her more than he realized, then, since his own literature was littered with connotations referencing her and things that she said. No one would pick up the indications if they were to read his novelette, perhaps not even her—not that she would ever come across it—but it was obvious to him.

Random things still reminded him of her—picnic baskets, Thai food, and plaid skirts. But it wasn't like he was staying up at night thinking about her—not anymore. There had been others since her, but not in the same way. He had them in the way that he never had her… not that they hadn't gotten close to that, before. No one else compared to the elevated pedestal he placed her on; he had almost deluded himself to imagining her perfect, which she wasn't. She was indecisive, obsessive compulsive, and always striving for perfection—in her schoolwork and relationships. She was so oblivious and naive when it came to the opposite sex, so she unintentionally strung numerous guys along, who all contested for her affection with no reciprocation. He had vied for her for over a year, and she was completely unmindful of his intentions. Obviously, she never intended to entice him—maybe that was part of her appeal, her effortless attraction.

He stood in front of the bookshelf, and took out the book once more. He opened up the pages and stared at something directly from her—he didn't have many mementos from their relationship, only notes in books and Distiller stubs. So fingering the pages, allowed him to submerge himself in his emotions—something he usually hid from the world—until he heard food steps behind him.

"What are you reading?"

He snapped the book shut again and stuffed it back on the shelf, though not forgotten. "Nothing." It was a flinch reaction. He turned around to his business—God, that word sounded so corporate—partner, looking guilty.

Chris only smiled, looking over his shoulder. "Kerouac, nice," he appraised.

Jess shrugged, seemingly indifferent to the meaningful treasure behind him. "I was just looking."

"That's your copy, isn't it?" His question was laced with interest, perhaps indicating that he wanted to start a discussion on whether it was myth or truth that the behemoth bible had been written on one, big, scroll of paper.

But Jess was disinterested, or, mostly, he feared a conversation that would require them to take out the book and examine its insides. To ward off any inviting dialogue, he leaned down and picked up his worn, navy blue, duffle bag—hoping his body language would speak for itself. Fortunately, Chris took the hint—he was good at reading him, despite his monosyllabic disposition—and pegged off. "I got to get going."

Chris nodded, understanding the time pressure involved with catching a bus to New York. "Hey, man, good luck with the book stuff. It's good, you know that, right?"

Jess shrugged—always the self-deprecator. "Doesn't matter if I think it's good, it matters if _they_ think it's good. And seeing as most chain stores are full of teenaged angst novels and self-help guides, I don't see where anything written by me is going to fit in."

Chris smiled and patted him on the back. "That's the spirit." Jess laughed. "Just tell them that it's a guide on how to pick up chicks, you'll sell millions."

Jess smiled a curt smile and swung his bag over his shoulder. "I'll do that."

"We wish you luck. I'll even drive you to the bus stop, c'mon." He motioned for the door, and Jess moved to follow him, but he stopped. "You coming?"

Jess cringed at what he was about to do. "Yeah, I'll be there in a sec."

Chris nodded. "Alright, man." He left the room and Jess listened as he walked down the stairs. He turned around to the dusty bookshelf and slid On the Road out of its slot, smoothly. He flipped it in his hands—to gain a better grip—and stuck it in his duffle bag. It was pathetic, but it would keep him occupied at night while he tried to pawn his book off to freelance bookstores.

He left the creaky, dank room and departed for his venture, which would last a few weeks. He was going to put himself out there, bearing his soul to a willing participant.

Of course, he was perfectly ready for all the rejection he was sure to receive.

He was back in the place where he never thought he would be again… well, he knew he'd be back, but just not so soon—his family _did_ live here, after all. He stared, solemnly, at the sign as they crossed over the state line. 'You are now entering Connecticut,' it read in stiff, black letters. He slumped down in his seat, next to some smelly old woman, and closed his eyes. In less than an hour, the bus would be encroaching upon the small town that was his home for almost two years.

When they rolled up to the blue and white sign, which read _Welcome to Stars Hollow _in whirly, gold letters, he chewed on the inside of his lip—just like he had done the first time he'd seen it. However, today's visit was voluntary and the first time had been a produce of force, so it was mixed with anxiety and annoyance. He'd taken one look at the quaint, little gazebo and felt his rebellious, apathetic brain scream inside his over-gelled head—thank God he was over that, now maybe he would still have some of his hair left when he turned thirty-five. Now, discomfort flooded his body as he passed by landmarks and memories that practically screamed her name. He found himself expecting her to be around the corner. He began looking for any girl with short, auburn hair and azure eyes—did she even have short hair anymore, did she change it without his knowledge like before?

The bus stopped on the other side of the square, and Jess spotted a familiar figure with a flannel shirt and a blue, backwards baseball hat. His eyes were squinty, and his arms were crossed, but he wore a closed-mouth smile that was probably an involuntary reaction. He knew the warmness would falter, slightly, as he got off the bus and they attempted small talk—two people with too little words seldom shared heart-felt moments. The two of them never were good at being nice to each other. The only interesting conversations they had were during fits of rage, and when they were exchanging insults. They both had different values—Luke was hardworking, while Jess was a certified slacker—but they both held similar characteristics—emotionally crippled, monosyllabic, and non-materialistic. However, Luke was a softy on the inside, and Jess was still jaded from the world he'd grown up in.

Their greetings had gone exactly as he had anticipated them to go, and his Uncle led him over to the hallowed archway of Luke's Diner. Luke took his duffle bag and set it behind the counter, following up with a mug and a pot of coffee for him. Jess sat down at the counter and briefly surveyed his surroundings. He internally laughed as he realized that all gossipy eyes were on him. He turned back to Luke who rolled his eyes and put down his coffee pot.

"I see the peanut gallery is still easily amused," Jess quipped, allowing a small smirk to cross over his face.

Luke scowled and shook his head. "They're like mutant flies or some kind of diseased mosquitoes." A scrawny man with very little facial hair sidled over to one of the stools next to Jess, stuffing a tape recorder towards his face. Jess furrowed his brow at the familiar, yet bizarre guy. "Hey!" Luke scolded loudly, causing the little man to jump and squeak. "Get out of here, Kirk!"

"I've been appointed to gather information, I can't let the public down," Kirk defended, wincing like he was anticipating his reprimand. Luke gave him an evil glare and Kirk backed down. "Fine, but I don't think I can handle the scuttlebutts." He motioned behind him where Babbette and Miss Patty were craning their necks to eavesdrop.

"You'll be fine," Luke deadpanned, keeping his voice harsh. Kirk retreated to his commanders, and reported his failure. Miss Patty and Babbette frowned in Luke's direction before gathering up their bags and leaving to tell the whole town about the little information they gathered. Luke turned back to Jess and leaned against the counter, propping himself up with his elbows. "They're mutant mosquitoes."

Jess laughed and brought his cup of coffee up to his lips. "So, I'm going to be staying at a motel in Hartford, and I was wondering if you could give me a ride."

Luke stood up straight, with a slightly surprised look on his face. He grabbed the dirty washcloth from the soapy water underneath the counter and started wiping it across the surface of the counter—enabling him to divert his eyes. "Oh," he said simply, disappointment lacing his tone.

Jess felt his insides squirm as he realized that Luke had expected him to stay here, with him. He decided, quickly, that he would do whatever it took to make Luke happy—which meant not openly exposing their feelings. "You know, I've been staying at different motels for a couple weeks now… it might be nice not falling asleep in some seedy room by myself."

Luke blinked. "What, do you want me to help you pick out a nicer hotel?"

Jess shook his head. "Nah, I just figured I'd crash here, instead, that okay?"

Luke inhaled deeply and thought about the proposal—obviously going to pretend that Jess was somehow putting him out by staying there. "Well, I have to get up early, and I was thinking about staying over at Lorelai's tonight, but I guess it wouldn't be that bad… if you don't mind getting woken up by the delivery man. I mean, your cot is still up there somewhere, it wouldn't be that hard to set up."

Jess nodded, taking a danish out of the glass-covered tray, and thought he saw Luke smile in the corner of his eye as he put the washcloth away. "So how's that going, anyway?" Jess asked with a mouth-full of pastry, broaching the subject, which had been filling his mind for weeks.

"How's what going?" Luke busied himself with refilling the coffee maker.

"The Lorelai thing." He looked away, avoiding Luke's eye-line, not wanting him to see how hopeful he was in his expression.

He looked up at Luke, whose brow was wrinkled. "Uh, it's fine. We've had our moments, but overall, it's been… good."

"So it's a romance for the ages," Jess joked.

Luke shrugged, not catching Jess' sarcasm. "We're engaged."

Jess' eyebrows shot up. "Wow."

"What?" Luke growled, growing defensive.

"I just, I never pictured you getting married."

Luke glared. "Well, I am—why is that so hard to believe?"

Jess shrugged. "I don't know, I guess I just thought you two would never get it together."

"Well, we did, okay?"

Jess nodded, wondering simultaneously about another Gilmore Girl. "So…" he trailed, searching for the right words to approach the topic. He decided to spit it out. "How's Rory?"  
The strained conversation became more intense as Luke fumbled with how to brush off Jess' question. He chose to ignore him and turn his back to him. "So how long are you going to be in town? Because I have a lot of things to do and…"

Jess sighed, realizing this was going to be harder than he thought. "I'm not going to bother her; I just want to talk to her."

Luke spun around quickly. "Jess, no!"

Jess frowned. "I just need to talk to her, to thank her." _Among other things…_

Luke blinked, indignant and uncooperative. "Just leave her alone, you've done your damage there."

Jess furrowed his eyebrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

His tone rose, slightly, so Luke shushed him. "Shh, keep it down will you?" He looked around to see if they had gained anyone's attention from Jess' outburst. Luke leaned in towards Jess' ear and motioned for him to lean in as well. "I just mean that she has her life on track now, she's happy, there's no need for you to come barging back into her life."

"Luke, I'm not going to do anything," Jess told him, concealing his ulterior motives in the back of his mind. "Why are we whispering?"

"Oh, because I don't want Lorelai to find out that you were inquiring about Rory's whereabouts…"

Jess' lips twisted up into a devious smirk. "Well, if you don't tell me, I'm just going to go to Yale, anyway, spending my time looking for her… which will come off as kind of crazy, and that will get back to Lorelai, anyway. By telling me where she is, you'll just be saving me time."

"Well how does the 'me-not-helping-you-part' get me in trouble?"

"Because you knew about my plan and didn't stop me." Jess stood up from his chair and started walking towards the exit of the diner.

Luke, surprised, sat up straight and beckoned him back. "Wait, wait, wait, wait, come back here." Jess stopped in his tracks and turned around. Luke sighed, visibly fighting the internal battle inside, and shook his head slowly. He took a deep breath. "She lives in Brandford Hall, room 203," he resigned, hesitation still obvious. Jess nodded and returned on his pathway towards the door. "Oh, Jess?" Jess turned around, pulling on his leather jacket in the process. "Don't make me regret this." Jess nodded, without a word, and left the diner with a whole new purpose in mind.

**Author's Note: Okay, so that's part one. I suggest all of you press Henry—the lovely, b-e-a-utiful, lavender button—and leave me an equally, lovely review. Or criticism… I'll take that, too. And for those of you who are my Rogan fans, I've been working on The Rush, I have the Prequel almost all planned out… and I have a few chapters planned out, too. It's a working progress. REVIEW! **


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